


Heaven.

by Schemilix



Series: Blood and Gold [12]
Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schemilix/pseuds/Schemilix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izlude shows his mettle much too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven.

 It hurts, but they let him live. They broke his arm and his pride with it, but when the men around him - his men, for the time being - lie in states between wounded and dead, Ramza points a sword at his chest and says, 

 ”We let him live.”

 Izlude opens his eyes, then. The valiant thing to do would be to challenge him, force himself to stand, make them kill him so he’ll die a warrior, not live a failure. 

 But he has more sense than that. More sense and not enough conviction in what he’s doing. He lowers his head and spits up blood where he’s bitten his cheek open. The last thing he sees of them is Agrias’ dull surprise when he feels his way through the world-fabric and  _pulls_.

 At least pain and shame aren’t unfamiliar. As he searches he tries to convince himself that his usefulness alive outweighs the benefits of him dying with valour.

 But he is dispensable. Izlude knows that.

 It’s as he’s on his destrier bird with an innocent girl younger than him slung across his saddle that Izlude begins to question. Raised a Templar, he was always proud to be doing the work of the gods. 

 He had eagerly awaited the day when he was old enough to take the blade - they’d let him join younger than most, too. It had surprised him when, instead of being trained as his sister had to be a Divine Knight, his training took a path more like a dragoon.

 Maybe this isn’t the first time he’s had questions, in fact. Izlude remembers his father holding the stone and saying something about divine power. For him, for his father, he’d agreed, maybe he’d even… he hadn’t, but the presence that he’d felt singing through his most steadfast companion, his blade - it hadn’t felt holy. It had felt wrong. Maybe he had just been frightened.

 Ivalice falls away below him. Wiegraf has died for this chance. He must honour the man’s sacrifice.

 He doesn’t. They take his chocobo from him and here he sits, disarmed, and in a cell next to a prisoner who was supposed to be his. Seething with frustration and not to mention bored, Izlude spends most of the time in incarceration knocking his head against the stone wall. Every so often he says, ‘ouch’, or ‘stupid bastard’, but for the most part he is sullen and silent. 

 Of course he doesn’t answer questions. They must want him whole or care little for his side of things, as they do not torture him for it. If they were to, Izlude thinks he can handle it. 

 Later Marach takes Izlude from his cell and leads him down the corridor, weapon ready. Izlude’s dark powers are in his blade; surrounded as he is by knights, he is helpless. 

 At the sight of his father he stops short by reflex, but Marach pushes him on. 

 Then he sees blonde hair, the red tabard. Wiegraf lives? 

 Izlude saw his wounds! Already half-dead, and that was not long enough ago to explain the miraculous absence of the man’s injuries. 

 Folles looks over his shoulder when he hears Izlude enter, and his eyes are strange - strange like his father’s have been of late.

 Before he can consider it, though, Marach has led him close enough to look in his father’s face. Much as he has grown in these last years his father still towers over him. Vormav towers over everyone, his body as indomitable as his will.

 Izlude feels he should explain. 

 ”Father, f-forgive me,” he blurts, and is cut off by the hard look in Vormav’s eyes.

 ”Your meaning becomes clearer,” Vormav tells the Duke, not looking away from Izlude. Then he growls.

 ”Worthless fool of a son!” he snaps. Izlude sees the blow coming but the sting of a gauntleted hand from a man of Vormav’s size knocks Izlude down, holding his face. It’s all he can do to keep back tears. The sting of those words, too. Worthless. Again.

 For a long time he can feel Vormav watching him, and only once he turns away does he dare to stand. His tone is cold when he addresses the Duke, but Izlude is no longer listening. 

 Wiegraf glances aside at him, uncaring.

 There’s a flash; Izlude is jarred out of his reverie by a blinding, golden light. It’s a blazing light, it has all the fury and majesty of a minuscule Sun. Leo. Leo burns.

 There’s an answering call from the stone tucked against his own breast, an insistent pull like a tide. He ignores it, feeling his arm, his whole body burn with the same strange energy that gives his glaive its sickly glow.

 His father is a terrible thing engulfed in that light. An intimidating presence at best the stone makes him overwhelming, and then his skin splits, his body twists. 

 The spirit in the stone flays Vormav and bends his bones but he is smiling, he is smiling and Izlude, horrified, cannot look away. 

 The Duke is gone - Wiegraf, too, has gone. Hashmal sweeps the knights aside and breaks their needle weapons, their matchstick spines. His claws rend them open half casually and Hashmal, his fur dripping with blood, turns to Izlude.

 His voice is Vormav’s voice from too large a chest, echoed by a deeper resonance that is only half sound.

 ”You see who I really am, Izlude.”

 Izlude does. He sees a monster. Does he even blame the stone? Was he ever as a Hume should be?

 ”Who stands before me?” he demands. His voice comes out as a croak though he manages to keep from letting his voice crack or pipe from fear. Not only is this creature enormous and unholy and smeared in blood of four men and his father, not only that but he radiates terror like an aura, it pours from him. Coming from him is the fear of judgement, of harsh blows and hiding bruises.

 Izlude forces himself to step forward, weaponless, and look the beast in his hollow black eyes.

 ”Hashmal, Bringer of Order, stands before you,” he growls. “Before a Zodiac Brave.” 

 Pisces jumps again, stirring. Izlude only shakes his head and looks down at the floor, his jaw set tight.

 The thing laughs, if it can be called that without any human joy in it.

 ”You should join with us, Izlude. As a vessel for Leviathan against your breast you may yet prove your worth. 

 Us? Izlude thinks of Wiegraf, his eyes widening. Then he looks up and shouts, “Never!”, and keeps his feet planted on the ground as Hashmal approaches.

 ”If you change your mind, you will know how to answer,” he says, raising a huge paw. Izlude, stupidly, raises his fists as well, squares his shoulders. “Stupid boy.”

 By the time he registers the blow he is slumped against the wall and already soaked in blood. Hashmal-Vormav is gone and from the castle comes screaming and unholy roaring, the clash of blades and hysteria. 

 Who else? he thinks. What other Braves are monsters like them?

 His head hurts and he knows in his bones that he will never stand again. Despair is too tiring and instead he feels only a dismal numbness. Dead, just like that, he thinks.

  _Stupid boy_. He shuts his eyes and only then realises that it makes no difference; he cannot see. Then he cries, gritting his teeth against the useless tears. Will they stop his pain - will they stop this horror? No, but they come anyway.

 Once more the stone pulls. A feeling like icy fingers spreads through him, like an Arctic sea, and he wonders if this is what death feels like.

  _Izlude Tengille_.

 Voices, two sliding over each other like damp scales, slithering, cold and quiet as the deeps. Izlude opens his mouth to reply but his voice is gone. Leviathan hears him anyway: Who-is-this-what-do-you-want-help-me-i-don’t-want-to-die-he-did-this-why-what-did-i-do-wrong. Hears it in one gulp. Its recognition is like the lazy flick of an eel’s tail, winding deeper into his mind.

  _We are Leviathan. We bring you power, knowledge. We bring you the strength to become a man. We bring your wisdom. Everything you crave._

 Crave? Only to be useful. Only to have his father look him in the eye. Maybe even call him ‘son’ and mean it.

  _That. And more. You need only treat with us. We will give you everything, Izlude Tengille. The only price is that you let us in, that you let us help you. Life, Izlude Tengille. Your wounds are nothing to us. You will be healed, you will be greater than man. Immortal._

 His young body rebels against death, even as its chill starts to creep over him. It isn’t right that he should die here - not so young, not with so much unfinished.

 Then he thinks: monster, and there is a hot flash in his mind. Anger, understanding, the word, ‘No’.

 He finds his voice and though it is cracked and broken, more of a scraping wheeze he says,

 ”I refuse.” 

 He shakes his head, feeling stabs of pain and not caring. Again,

 ”I refuse.”

 If all he can do is deny this fucking thing a conduit to this world then he won’t die in vain. His voice is raw like a wound, and he forces it into a shout, quiet, but a shout:

 ”I REFUSE!”

 Pisces withers back into its stone. Spent, Izlude is left alone, cold, bleeding, and more accomplished than he can remember feeling. He lets himself slump.

 A gentle voice. Waking - darkness, and cold, so cold, but he needs his sword, needs to fight them, god, why can’t he see? Dark and cold and the sword, the sword! No - the monsters, they’re free, killing, they must be stopped. His hands grasp fabric, pulling, she needs to know his conviction, this isn’t a game, miss, please…

 They’re gone? Stopped? It’s done, then. Izlude can… can rest. 

 The stone. No good on him. It needs taking. He feels its weight leave his chest and maybe, maybe his breathing eases. Good, it’s done. Gratitude… Everything is done. 

 Cold-black drops in, smothering.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, the names are bastardised. This is written at the fault of Arubboth, and the repetition of 'I refuse!' comes from a drawing of hers.


End file.
